Resident Evil 4(Pedro Remastered Edition)
by RafterJamesJr
Summary: This is my idea that I've been seriously working on for a few years. I always thought, "What would happen if RE4 was more realistic, and had OTHER agents join in, instead of only one?" I guess we'll find out here.


My name is Pedro Kennedy, and I have to save the president's daughter. After the horrid days of that Afghanny fireworks show, 9-11, Mexico became a hotspot of conflict and biomechanical engineering. Bean fields have been scrapped and buried to make room for Cartel cocaine factories. Full blown cities full of fun loving paraplegics and beautiful inbreds have been chiseled down to small -out of the way- villages(known to the locals as pueblos). The helpful local law enforcement(who call themselves La Policia de Mexico City) escorted me from the airport, where I got a jalapeno pretzel and some cheese on the side for 40 pesos, which is a pretty good deal since it takes thirteen pesos to make a dollar; and I prepared myself for the worse.

Everyone knows nothing's more terrible than a terrorist, and rumors has it, they're here in Mexico where it's too close for comfort.

My equipment consisted of a radio, food rations, a miniature grappling hook(just in case), tracking device, first aid spray, my trusty knife, and one of the greatest pistols known to man: a 9mm Beretta 92 w/ laser sight & silencer. Developed in 1934 by an Italian spaghetti sauce scientist, the Beretta houses every high ranking attribute a gun of that caliber needs. Thirty-two round magazine, 381m/s muzzle velocity, 50m effective firing range, high friction rubber compound grip, rifled barrel for extra precision over the smoothbore barrels of the 1800 era revolvers. Hollow points are able to explode inside of the human body in a painful blast of metal shards, killing any tango in any vital area with a messy result; while Full Metal Jackets are used to penetrate light body armor, making that 2in sheet of chest metal more useless than a wet banana. Sadly, neither one was available at the airport gift shop, so I had to stick with the normal 9X19 parrabelum with less powder to allow the attached silencer to do its dirty work, also known as low-velocity rounds, commonly used by SWAT and Special Forces all around the world.

It truly is a Lethal Weapon.

The beaner driving also ate from a plate of nachos sitting on the dashboard, spitting cheesy chips on the windshield. That Filthy Fuck. "Having fun back there, American?"

I was busy in the back surveying the landscape, nothing but dirt and leafless trees for the past mile. Not a cactus in sight, so I can safely assume that myth is busted for sure. Adjusting my blue hat, I fought off the urge to curse his punk ass out. That hat has saved me more times than I can count, like the time it blocked a headshot from a sniper in New Guinea. But that's another badass story for another time.

Suddenly, the hood of the car started to cough up smoke, getting blacker by the second. Preparing for the worse, I gathered up my high tech equipment and jumped through the van's window. Specks of glass rained all around me and I rolled to land on a knee. I glanced back to see the two cops get out of the car casually, carrying a fire extinguisher.

The driver wiggled his glasses, chuckling at the situation. "Uh oh, spaghetti-ohs. Seems like the engine overheated. We must have been carrying more weight than we figured."

I dragged my full-to-bursting survival bag away from the burning wreck, the pesos in it jingling loudly with each tug. "Don't look at me, brah."

A slight rustling came from the bushes behind me, somewhere beyond the road's edge. I figured it was some kind of harmless tropical wildlife, like an ocelot. More like a snake. What I didn't know was that another agent had joined us, hired by a different agency. Naked Snake laid prone in the cover of the overgrown foliage, holding a finger to his ear piece.

"Otacon," he said in his cigar chomping gruff voice, "I'm coming up to a bridge leading towards the town."

Otacon's voice was as worrisome as ever. "Keep going, Snake. Remember: do not, under any circumstances, allow anyone to know you're there. Stealth is the key to this mission."

"Are you sure they're holding nukes here? This place doesn't seem to be top of the line like the other bases I've infiltrated."

"Never judge a book by its cover."

"Or a snake by its skin," Snake added.

"Go fuck yourself. I'm going to go slit my wrist. Otacon out."

Naked Snake huffed to himself. "What an emo git. Still angsty after the whole 'sister dying in his arms and bleeding out all over him' thing." He mocked his partner crying, rubbing his eyes with his fists. "Waah. She was my only reason for living. Give me a break." Seeing he was off track he got back to business. "Oh, yeah. The mission!"

While resuming his crawl along the roadside, I decided to take the reins of the whole car crisis. "Hurry up!" I barked at the brown sub-humans. "The president's daughter is at stake here!"

"Well here's the problem," the driver stated while looking under the hood with his eyes closed. "Someone put water in the gas tank." He pulled out the oil stick to see how much there was. "And instead of oil, it's Nutella." They gave the engine one shot from the fire extinguisher and the fire died out instantly. I finally got the chance to breathe a sigh of relief when we all headed back inside the van. It was a good thing I was there to tell them, or else we would've never got back on track.

Crossing a rickety bridge, much like that of a whipper snapper adventure flick, we came up to a lone two-story house sitting in the middle of a barren forest. The van slowed down into a small clearing, e-brake cranking. Crows gathered before us, probably migrating south for the oncoming winter. They must've been part of the nearby gurrilla forces because they held AK-47s, and looked like they were fresh out of the nest. Those are the real victims: the ones that don't even know they're involved.

The mustached driver stretched his arm across the back of the passenger seat, eying me with those brown egg-like peepers. "Care to see if anyone's inside?" He asked with a disgustingly upbeat voice, like smooth tequila with extra mustard. "You never know, there could be some clues and any kind of help is worthwhile." His cheery smile was sickening, joined by a blood curdling titter.

"Why don't you quit pushing me around and do it yourself?!" I shot back, keeping my cool. I have beautiful blonde hair and blue eyes, and I'm not willing to tolerate that kind of sass from anyone. Only the president can boss me around, because he's my boss and the boss of every other warm blooded American.

The driver turned back to face the front, shrugging happily. "I would love to, but somebody's got to guard the wheel. And my partner is busy making hot cocoa to share between the three of us."

The sombrero wearing cop in the passenger seat held two steaming mugs in his hands; both with "I heart root beer" painted on them in red, white, and blue. It'll take more than that to pay me off. "I wasn't sure if you like whip cream or marshmallows, so I'll let you take your pick when you get back. M'kay?"

"Sure thing," I said sarcastically, getting out of the van. Anything to get away from those two taco munchers. Scaring the birds away by just walking past them and intimidating them with my amazing physique, I adjusted my furry jacket to hide the anger brewing inside. "…Assholes."

In the van, the two cops never saw the bald and formally suited man slowly rise up from the back seat. The driver glanced at the rear-view mirror, only given enough time to see a distinguishing red tie and a bar code on the back of his head. Before either one of them could react, the unknown visitor wrapped his fiber wire over both of their necks, conking their greasy heads together. Their legs kicked all over, knocking nachos and beer cans across the dashboard and out the open windows. Once they stopped twirking, the black gloved assassin eased back; his pointed face never moving away from its natural frown.

I returned to the van to make sure it was still there. Everything seemed to be still in tacked, the driver snoozing away like any typical lazy Mexican would. The second officer seemed to be a bit paler, but it didn't matter. All brownies look alike to me. He held one of the cocoa filled mugs on a saucer out the window.

"Care for some now?" He asked calmly, an uncommon trait for these wild donkey turds. "The toppings are in the glove box, including some chocolate syrup."

I snatched the cup of cocoa from his hands. "I take mine black, thank you very much."

Watching me sip my cocoa and resume my approach of the suspicious residence, the disguised assassin took off the officer hat, squinting his eyes at me with bad intentions.

"Hello?" I called out, seeing the metal door to the wooden house was already cracked wide open previously.

Nobody answered, meaning my handgun was ready for some fresh air. Entering the living room, a fat and balding male stood before the fireplace, holding an ax in his hand. I was highly trained and prepared for any urban situation, so I approached with caution. The last thing I wanted to do is startle a potential drug addict or cartel lackey, so I made sure to keep my voice low and subtle.

"Uhh… HEY!" The windows rattled, one of the shutters clattering open from the force. "Sup, brah." He didn't respond. I knew he wouldn't. Not even Mexicans in the United States understand the poetic beauty that is the American language. "I'm looking for the president's daughter. Maybe you've seen her?"

I would show him the picture I was given, but most of it is covered in man gravy. She's one hot tamale, I'll give her that. Before I could tell him about the picture and why I couldn't show it to him because I basted it in spank sauce, the guy took a swing at me with his ax. The hit missed me as I ducked and charged into him. Bumping my head against his beer belly, my blue hat magnified the strength of my push and sent him flying across the room.

I dusted my hands off after a hard day's battle. "Take that, ya brown sack of shit!"

Legs flailing, the man landed face first on the edge of the brick made fire place. The sharp corner plunged into his skull and burst his head like a watermelon. Hot taco bell sauce splattered all over the place, showering over the furniture and windows. I came out clean because I dodged the bodily juices with a simple step to the side, like any badass would. This seemed like the perfect time to contact my subordinate, the lovely Ms. Hunnigan.

"Hunnigan, I've apprehended a hostile. This place seems full of them. I'm surrounded!"

Hunnigan looked good enough to eat with her black ponytail and glasses, but too bad for her- I'm not into niggers. "Looks like you have a long journey ahead of you."

"Don't rub it in," I said coyly, scratching my sweaty ass crack with the barrel of my berretta.

"Just go find the girl and contact me again when you do."

"She's not a girl; she's the freaking president's daughter! How dare you-"

"Oh, I'm getting another call," she interrupted. "Over and out."

"Oh… okay. Bye-bye."

Taking off her wig, Torri pulled on a lab coat and put on a different, brunette, wig. "Hey Snake."

"Otacon. I'm crossing the bridge. It seems like there's no patrols so far. Wait… I think I see someone."

On the other side of the wooden plank bridge, a purple robed elder stood where the cliff's side met thin air. A decorative robe hung over his shoulders like some egotistical medieval king, a golden broach in the shape of a donkey's head keeping it on. He waited there as if predicting Snake was going to soon arrive, holding a strange squirming staff. It seemed to be part shotgun as well, complete with a shell belt by the handle and pump-action grip under its barreled tip. Naked Snake got up out of his crawl, combat knife in one hand and combat pistol in the other. He aimed the gun straight at his main target's head, ready to fire if he makes any sudden moves.

"Sadler!" He screamed at his opponent, standing three feet away.

Sadler spoke in broken glass English, his accent thicker than overgrown carpet. "Greetings, Naked Snake."

Snake grunted in surprise. "Wha- you know my name? Explain yourself!"

Sadler tilted his head back, showing all the boogers tangled in his overgrown nose hairs. "Silly, Americans. They never see what's right in front of their doorstep. Only when something hops the fence do they start firing like gun crazed cowboys, they are." He stepped to the side, presenting someone coming in from the shadows. "And only when money is offered, do they give up on Patriotism."

Snake's old partner and mentor, Krauser, walked onto the bridge; carrying two giant metal army storage cases. He looked the same as the previous week when he was last seen: same red beret and scared up mouth. Dropping them on the bridge's planks, their heaviness caused the crossway to sway out of control. Snake covered his face with his arms, bracing until the shockwave dissipated.

"Krauser! But why? Why work for the browns?!"

Krauser crossed his arms, taking in a long deep breath. "Ever since the fall of the U.S.S.R. in 1945, the world has been split into two sides: The whites and the browns. In the end… we're all like rice."

"So you see, Snake," Sadler continued, "We must bring an end to the pathetic excuse of a government you call capitalism."

"Not this time!"

Snake ran towards them, emptying out his magazine. Krauser absorbed all of the bullets like jell-o, waltzing up to the experienced soldier. Out of ammo, Snake switched off to his knife, jabbing at Krauser's throat. With one hand, Krauser pushed him down flat on his back. Blood dripped out of Snake's nose, bruise and scratches all over his body.

Snake struggled to get up, gritting his teeth. "Why would you be a traitor, Krauser? What good is money when the world is gone?"

Krauser's disfigured arm pulsed and changed into the shape of a wing- made of bone and exposed muscle. Then his other arm transformed, his wingspan longer than a pterodactyl's. Looking like a lovecraftian version of the great and delicious American bald eagle, he laughed insanely, but still in his badass deep voice. "You still don't get it. It's not money I want. It's power! And with this power, nobody can stop me!"

Snake winced in pain, his ribs broken from the fall. "Krauser!"

"Smell ya later, Snake."

A gust of wind sent Snake tumbling off of the side of the rope bridge, the greatest American soldier yelling in a very manly way all the way down into the river far below. He splashed hard into the water, quickly washing up on the water's sandy edge. Krauser flapped his wing-arms, Sadler hopping on his back before they took off. Having taken the opportunity to open the army cases and attached its contents with his staff, Sadler held the nuclear rifle rocket launcher(or NR3 for short) and stood up on Krasuer's back. They soared around the area, Sadler aiming the NR3 out into the far distance.

The nearest city was Los Angeles, and that was where he was pointing the nuke.

Snake applied first aid to his wounds, wrapping bandages and medial tape around his arm. Looking up as a shadow passed by, he saw the NR3 firing; its propellant smelling of bleach and duck butter. After a few seconds of what seemed like forever, a mushroom cloud bloomed off in the horizon. Snake braced for the incoming torrent, covering his face and grunting tensely. The entire world seemed to be going to an end, and we were all smack dab in the middle of all of it.

. . .

I looked out of the second story window, investigating the loud noise outside. What I saw scared the poop out of me. A crimson sky with a giant cloud of death and destruction. The only way out torn to pieces by the intense wind. This house didn't have a computer, so I couldn't checkup what's new on TV trope.

This day just keeps getting better…

Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, a truck full of red-eyed villagers crashed through the gates. They carried what were either triple barreled shotguns… or pitchforks. I prayed it was the latter. The truck crashed into the van, sending it crashing down the cliff, the gas tank exploding on impact. Seeing my ticket out of here going up in a ball of flames, that's when I called Hunnigan.

"Hunnigan, the worst thing happened. I'm in a place with no cable or TV tropes Oh... and LA was nuked, so I guess that's a bad thing."

"I know, I saw the gif on tumblr. You better find the president's daughter now that shit's got real."

"Anything about America declaring war?"

"What for? Everyone knows LA is full of spics and dog eating, slanted eyes, chinks."

"Jeeze Hunnigan. That's a little racist, don't you think?"

"There is a village down the road past this trapped dog and a few shacks. Go get her tiger!"

"Right, over and out."

Ready for more action, I jumped through the window and rolled onto a knee once I hit the ground. Whipping out my one handed death machine that fires loud little killers… I found a sight that disturbed me. All of the tangos were already dealt with, without a sign of blood or struggle. To add to the mystery, one of them was stripped of his clothes with one of the cop's uniforms folded neatly next to him. Hoping I don't meet the crazy bastard that took them all on, I traveled deeper into the forest.

Right outside of the small brick gates of the secluded estate, and just as Hunnigan foretold, I found a wounded dog with its hind leg clamped in a bear trap. It's eyes looked up at me with pleases of mercy, the poor dog whimpering in pain. Fighting off my fear of dogs, I got down on a knee and carefully inched closer. Then, like any kind hearted animal lover would… I took out my knife and slit its throat. Lying limp in the dry grass, its trapped leg snapped in half from its dead weight.

Soon enough I came up to a small shack after dodging a handful of trip wire mines and bear traps. Inside, there was plenty of ammo to resupply the rounds I spent in the previous fight. After I picked up the red box of ammo, I turned around to see a woman plastered to the wall, a blood drenched pitchfork shoved into her face with enough force to keep her there. If you ask me, the spic bitch deserved it, and this means less beaner babies to worry about. Pressing on, I exited the shack without looking back.

Little did I know, the presumed corpse reached out and pried the farming implement from its skull. The red paint tricked me into thinking it was blood, and the ever clever Agent 47 tricked me into thinking he was a woman. As I walked away, he squinted his eyes at me with bad intent.

Down the trail, there were a few infected Mexicans waiting by a Home Depot up on a hill. Seeing me approaching their position, they quickly scurried onto a pickup truck, probably to tell the others. Great, I thought to myself, now they're going to try to ask me for money. The truck full of farming tools sped off and drove straight into a nearby river, exploding right there in front of me. Covering my face to defend against the flying shrapnel and cowboy boots, I thanked goodness they didn't get the chance to sound the alarm.

I came up to the outskirt of the village after only a half an hour of getting lost. The forest was practically a maze since I didn't have a map or GPS to find my way around. Looking back, I was impressed as to how far I made it by foot. The two-story house I was attacked in was an incredible 5 feet away. Sweat dripped all over me like I was being followed by my own personal rain cloud, but it would take more than a little dehydration to make my back wet.

It appeared that everyone in the small pueblo was preforming everyday activities, like plowing for tortilla chips or drinking shitty beer. I had the shroud of stealth working for me, and I took a little side path around the area of action in the town center. A giant fire, with the body of one of the cops that brought me here, burned furiously in the middle of everything, but that wasn't important. Chickens flapped their wings wildly all over the place, hiding my position in a haze of feathers and hot cheetos. I was just about to pass one of the bigger buildings, when I stumbled on a pile of fire wood, the loosed logs rolling over a cow and crushing its head while it ate some grass; giving away my position with a loud crash and explosion of cow brains.

One of them holding a tuba pointed a finger at me angrily, shouting to cause a commotion. "I see S.T.A.R.S.!"

Cursing, I high tailed it out of their range, thrown axes and machine gun fire kicking up dirt around my feet. Using the nearby house as cover, I bought a few seconds until I was met with a picket-fence. I hopped over it, its paint worn off from the kids practicing for the real deal. There was an open door just across the street from me, and a horde of blood-thirsty tangos right on my ass. Sprinting inside, I quickly locked up the door and peaked through the viewing slot.

"He snuck into another man's house!" one of them cried out threateningly.

All of them gathered around the house I was in, more coming in as the seconds went by. One of the villagers carried an uprooted tree and parked it in front of the door, setting it up to be used as a battering ram. Others joined in, banging and nearly smashing it off the chain lock I set. A small dresser caught my eye, and I rushed over to push it next to the door. While I was doing so, more tangos showed up near the window.

If I didn't hurry and close the blinds, they would've broken their way in right then and there. Time was dying fast, so I climbed up the stairs to see if there was another way out. Outside, I could hear the revving of a chainsaw, followed by wood being turned into hamburger meat. Just my luck, I thought. On second thought, luck was on my side, since there was a 12 gauge Winchester Model 1897 Shotgun w/ reflex sight & bayonet (also known as the trench gun) at the top of the stairs just sitting in a wall holder. Now this was a man's weapon, and it's common to find in out of the way areas like this for things like putting down crippled horses or rabid dogs.

First produced in 1313 and first used by the Greek city-states during the Polynesian War, the shotgun is now used to stop slaves from running off of the owner's plantation. Wood crafted finish, pistol grip for one handed use, ridged pump-action for nonslip handling, ammo stock strap for easy reload, shortened barrel for wider spread; everything I need to kick some serious ass. With a 12 gauge buck shot, as well as hard hitting slug rounds; the gun can be used for crowd clearing or hurting one dude really really badly. Its 8 round under-barrel shell tube was already fully loaded, so there was no reason for me to feed it more murder fuel. All I needed was one cock and I was ready to blow.

I put it away for when I really need it, sticking with my trusty Berretta for now.

The plywood barricade I had going on down stairs gave out with a loud crash, the insane chainsaw tango with a sack over his head charging in at full speed; the others following closely. Some got too close and were decapitated for being reckless, blood and chunks of brains painting the walls in a new coat of "human crimson". That Home Depot I mentioned earlier is going to have a field day with all the repairs and fixing this place is going to need. Their feet pounded away up the stairs, and I blasted off all I got. Every shot hit the ground or the empty air, the tensness of the situation making me miss the mass of targets bunched up in the stairway.

Behind me, another window was broken into, the tangos bringing latters to smash through the glass and climb inside. I was forced to retreat, right after throwing an Mk II fragmentation grenade down the steps and into the hail of AK-47 gunfire coming my way. The force of the nearby explosion knocked me off of my feet, especially since it came from below the floorboards. I was tossed into an unmade bed full of cookie crumbs and cat hair, the soft mattress breaking my fall. Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, a fire broke out, one of the curtains igniting from a tossed torch during all the chaos and destruction.

The chainsaw welding madman reared his ugly- seed sack covered- head right when I recovered from a slight daze, and he was getting too close for comfort. I pulled the trigger of my pistol, but ended up with an empty click. It seems 35 rounds go fast when you're in a hurry. With no time to reload, it was all over, I was done for. But then, out of nowhere, a knife blocked the chainsaw in mid swing. Naked Snake stood between the two of us, battered and still with plenty of fight left in him.

I stared up at him in delight and amazement. "What the- who are you?!"

Snake glanced over his shoulder, sparks flying all over from his metal blade fending off the gas guzzling chainsaw. "I'm the other sorry son-of-a-bitch trapped in this god forsaken hell hole."

"You must be really skilled to get by me. I didn't even hear you coming!"

He pointed at himself with a thumb. "That's because I'm wearing forest pattern camouflage and face paint. Developed in 1642, by a French film director, camouflage has been used by elite forces and combatants all over the world ever since. Also, I covered myself in deer urine to hide my scent, and I ate some bear droppings to mask the chili cheese fries I got from Weinershnitzel."

"Wow, I guess it's a small world after all. I ate a jalapeno pretzel with cheese that I bought at the airport for 40 pesos."

"Hmm, that's a good deal since it takes 13 pesos to make a dollar."

"Yeah, that's what I said."

Snake looked back at the bag wearing nutcase. "Looks like great minds think alike."

Shoving the chainsaw upwards high up with his knife, Snake twisted around the man, getting behind him while he was stunned. In a swift slash, Snake slit the guy's throat and drenched me in his jugular blood in the process. This time, I didn't dodge it. I was too awestruck by how fast and stealthy he was. I've always dreamed of having a mentor to teach me the very same skills, and he seemed like the top of the line.

Now that the weight of the situation was divided into two, both of us were locked, loaded, and ready to kick some serious ass. But right when I was about to get cracking, a sound rang out from outside. The taco bell tolled on the church tower, all of the violent villagers heading towards a nearby building with a donkey head insignia on the door. Like the drug induced trance my dad had when he tried PCP for the first time, all of them simply waltzed away. Some of them uttered out hints of what happened behind the scenes, and me and Snake heard every bit of it.

"Moldy daddy dildo…" an old man muttered.

"Applebee's!" another one added.

Snake pointed a finger at the dissipating crowd. "Quick, now's our chance." He held his knife like in Norman Bates in Psycho. "Let's finish off the stragglers!"

I held up my knife too. "True that, brah!"

Chasing them down the stairs, we started to stab the living shit out of them, blood and brains splattering all over the house. The body count rose with each plunge of the knife into the back of their skulls, all of them focused on following the bell's order. By the time we got out of the house, we were covered head to toe in severed mustaches and entrails. Climbing over the mass of dead bodies covering the doorway, we dusted ourselves off and saw the whole place deserted. Both of us shook ourselves, like a dog drying its fur, to clean off all the blood from our clothes.

I used the little extra time we had to take a breather. "That was pretty intense, if you ask me."

Snake gave me a coy smirk. "All in a day's work for me."

"I can safely assume we're in it for the long run. We might as well tell each other our names, for starters."

He pointed a thumb at his chest. "You can call me Naked Snake, for now. I'm a part of a secret organization called Foxhound that fights terrorism all over the world. We pretty much prevent nuclear catastrophes on a daily basis. Problem is, today's a different story-"

"-Because this time they did," I finished for him.

"Exactly. So what's your name, blondie?"

I couldn't tell him my real name, I just met the guy and code names seemed like a nice touch. "Rafter James. You can call me Rafter James, brah."

He squinted for a second before pointing at my jacket. "But your nametag says: Pedro Kennedy."

I saw where he was reading and facepalmed myself. "Oh, great. Now I look stupid."

"No, you're not stupid. I think it's cute." He flashed me a quick, stiff, smile before clearing his throat. "Now let's check out where everybody headed."

"You're right. Maybe the president's daughter is held up in the church."

He laughed gruffly, hacking up phlegm and sticky orange juice spit. "Ha! Now that's just fucking retarded!"

Once we found the mockup of a church tower standing within the village, we were also met with a "do not enter" sign and yellow police tape wrapped across the door. Snake jiggled the handle, but it was to no avail. "Great, now how are we supposed to get to the bottom of all of this?"

I saw a trail leading through an alternate path. "Look," I shouted with success, "here's a trail that leads through an alternate path!"

"Good work, Pedro!"

"They're probably expecting us to go through it, making traps and ambushes to make things harder on us."

Snake held my shoulder, giving me an assuring grin. "Don't worry, Pedro. They have no idea who they're dealing with. They're fucking with America!" Fireworks exploded behind him, the good old "red, white, and blue" waving valiantly all around us.

Or at least that's what I imagined.

As we left the broken remains of our welcoming party, a chicken eating seeds stopped in mid peck. Lifting its head up, Agent 47's face showed, clear as day. Unzipping himself out of his chicken suit, he adjusted his tie, his face stiff. Entering the house, he took out a syringe full of lethal injection. Sticking the needle into the chainsaw welders neck and pumping his veins full of the stuff for good measure, he began swapping clothes. Putting the sack over his head and looking in our direction, he squinted his eyes through the two holes with bad intention.

. . .

Heading down the dirt path, we came across a normal looking farmstead. Fully armed guards patrolled the area, keeping their pitchforks and wood axes on standby. Snake went left and I went right. Meeting back on the other side, we left a trail of bodies and pools of blood; all taken out without even making a sound. Flawless victory if there ever was one; those terrorist never had the chance.

I was in a hurry and didn't take any precautions when I opened the two giant wooden doors leading to the mountain side. Gears cranked. Wheels spun. Weights snapped. Pulleys pulled. It was a trap.

Snake saw it before I did. "Pedro, look out!"

The earth started to shake violently, telling me it was something big. The barn doors opened and a giant boulder came barreling down hill towards us. Snake quickly followed military procedures and went prone to blend in with the scenery. The deadly boulder passed right over him, snake coming out unharmed. I, on the other hand, had no camouflage to follow his example.

"Run, Pedro!" He advised me over the rumbling of the approaching hunk of rock.

I sprinted down the mountain side as fast as I could, but the change in my bag and pockets was too much for me to outrun the boulder.

"Hold your knife," Snake shouted, "you run faster with the knife!"

I knew he was going to say that. Whipping out my knife and crouching down a little, I ran faster than one of those Kenyan urban legends. Speeding away like a nascar racer, I headed straight into a low roofed tunnel. Like someone swing a mace into a babies soft spot, the boulder shattered into a million little pebbles. Snake caught up with me, patting me on the back.

"Good job, Pedro! You destroyed the raider's cliché!"

"Let's hoping there isn't anything else Indiana Jones related," I said, adjusting my brown leather jacket and my hat.

We ended up in a swamp after the tunnel of doom, and snake blocked me from moving with a swift swing of his arm.

"Pedro, wait!" He pointed into the water. "There are snakes squirming around in the water over here."

"Good eye," I told him.

Before I could walk again, he smacked me in the face with his hand. "Pedro, wait!" He pointed over to a shack. "There are giant man eating spiders in that hut over there, and bear traps on the ceiling!"

I gave a look that said, "Yeah, I know." And then I told him, "Uh, yeah… I know."

Snake stopped me again. "Pedro, wait!" He pointed over to a half ruined house full of sizzling sounds. "That house over there is full of infected holding sticks of dynamite! Dynamite was invented in 1535 to turn rocks into gold and they can help detect water in the desert." He pointed over to the other house where we could hear someone tied up banging on a door to a dresser. "Over there are sniper nests and guard patrols walking along the causeway in groups of three. And if we open the door, an explosive trap will detonate and turn us into sexy hamburger meat. To the east, there is a cupeca'yeah brah' aiming at our heads right now with a double barreled PSG-1 w/ explosive rounds & silencers. To add to the list, our position is being tracked through satellite uplinks that are disguised as radio towers, and one of those satellites is directly above us and if we exit our cover, we will be hit with a kinetic strike. Developed in the year 3005, Kinetic missiles pack enough punch to turn 4000lbs of people into 2000lbs of swiss cheese. Think of it like blowing someone's head off with a shotgun, but from space."

"Holy guacamole," I exclaimed. "So what do we do?"

Snake aimed his own Berretta 92 at a tripwire nearest to use. "This!" He fired, and a chain reaction caused every other explosive to turn the acre of land into a huge impact site. Standing inside the huge crater was the main house of the area, left unharmed.

"Wow, Snake. That was some shot you did there."

Snake looked deep into my eyes, licking his lips lustfully. "… I did it for you." Shaking his head, he seemed to escape some kind of spell. "Sorry, we still don't know each other very well. I just hope it doesn't stay that way. Know what I mean… brah?"

I nodded, knowing he would say that. "Yeah, brah. I know exactly what you mean. You're saying the banging noises coming from the house are our best bet for now."

Snake held his gun up at the ready. "Exactly, now let's get in there and find out what's the stich."

Getting inside the house, we found out exactly what the stich was. Deciding that it was me who was going to open the dresser, I turned the sticky knob. Out fell a foreigner, his mouth taped and wrist bound like how my dad did to a hooker when he was filming her last minutes alive. I saw his skin wasn't white, so I only took off the tape so I can get some answers.

"Give me some answers!" I barked at him, pistol whipping him in his girly black hair.

"I'd like a dozen cigarettes, please."

Snake held me back before I kicked his ass some more. "Oh, hi Luis. We didn't know it was you."

"Who's Luis?" I questioned.

Luis sat up, giving us a cheeky smile. "That's me!"

Snake gave me all the answers I needed. "Born in 1964, Luis Sanchez is the lead scientist of the entire Plagas expireiments after they were found underground near the village. That is," he shot Luis a dirt look, "Until he left and decided to help the rebel forces against the tyranny of the terrorist overlords in Mexico."

Luis stood up on his knees, throwing a water bottle with his shoulder. "It's bullshit! I did not hurt anyone! I did not create any plagas virus here! I did not… Oh, hi chief."

Right behind us, the big quesarito of the village had snuck up behind us, his two guards at his side. One of the guards held an ax and had a red tie with a bar code on the back of his head, his pointed face looking down at us menacingly. I was about to run up and kick all of their asses, but a sudden sense of drowsiness hit me like my dad did when I was younger. Snake held me up, my eyes forcing themselves closed. I could barely hear him.

"Pedro, what's happening to you?!"

"Someone roofied my coca," I mumbled. "Now I know how my 5th grade teacher felt after she was raped at a new year's party."

In seconds… I was knocked out.

. . .

Waking up in a pool of cold sweat, I was alone in a different place. It seemed like a garage with a pickup truck and a Nissan Altima being fixed by a Pep Boy's worker. I was tied up, but the rope was made of flour tortilla, so I had to eat my way through. As I left the room, the mechanic rolled away from under the shitty car and stood up to rub his hands on his rag. But then, right after, the roller board stood up and the wooden board disguised Agent 47 fiber wired the mexican's neck, snapping his spine by twisting the wire around itself.

But, at that time, I didn't know all of that was going on right behind me.

Through a window, I saw a strange man with a backpack and a trench coat full of weapons. "Stranger!" He beckoned seductively in a gruff voice, riding on a unicycle while juggling flaming bowling pins.

Outside the merchant waited by a blue torch, matching my hat. Behind him, the Agent 47 picked up a hammer stuck in a tree trunk. Bashing his skull in, the silent assassin took his belongings and hid in plain sight. Ready to investigating the odd sighting, I found the merchant waiting for me behind the house. He swung open his trench coat to show me his wares.

"Got a wide selection available today for you."

I looked in my backpack full of pesos, and shook my head. "Sorry, I want to save my money for now."

Right when I turned around, he held up a gun to my head. Then he opened his palm to present it to me. "Here. Take this pistol for doing so well. It's free."

I took the NOT Beretta 92 from his hands, unsure as to what kind of gun it was exactly. "Thanks," I said sarcastically, walking away. Then I muttered under my breath, "Asshole…"

The hitman took off the scarf over his mouth and watched me leave, squinting his eyes at me with bad intent.

The thought occurred to me when I tossed the useless weapon down the canyon. Snake was nowhere to be found. It was going to be a lonely journey now that I am all on my own. I assumed he was killed by the Big Quesirito or forced to travel through the treacherous Mexican wasteland we're in, in order to find me. Down the road was the mayor's house, and still no sign of Naked Snake.

I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye…

Opening the door to the house, I found Snake waiting by a door. "Oh, hey Snake."

Snake hugged me, one of his legs lifting up happily. "Pedro, you're safe! What did they do to you? Where did they take you? Are you all right?"

"I-"

Snake shoved his hand over my mouth. "There's no time for that now. Let's get going!"

Leaving the bedroom full of One Direction Posters and empty lube bottles, we entered a long hallway. Closing the door behind us, the face of the grandfather clock popped off. Agent 47's face glared out from the clock, his red tie making the swinging ticking weight. Peeking to the left, he squinted his eyes at us threateningly… with bad intention.

"Not a hint of the chief guy yet."

"It's a good thing he's not black, or else if we say nigger then he'd pop out of nowhere," Snake joked.

Suddenly, the Big Quesirito burst through the ceiling, planks of wood and dead chickens fall all around us. "I heard that!" he growled in a high pitched voice, "My aunt Shaquamochaniqua is from New Guinea!"

"That's where my hat blocked a sniper round!" I shouted, lying on the ground in the mess of broken glass and flaming carpet.

The chief picked me up and lifted me by the neck, like the guy who was mad at me in art class because I threw paint all over his drawing. Snake pounded away at his side. "Let him go you big bully!" He cried with tears in his eyes. "We're telling on you!"

He laughed at the threat. "Haha! You are one of use now!"

Snake pointed at me in shock. "Pedro! They injected-"

"They injected me with the Plagas?!" I cried to finish his sentence because I knew he would say that.

Snake shook his head. "No! You're hat! They've infected your hat!"

The shit hit the fan when I emptied my bowels all over the desk with a fan on it. Chucky poop splattered all over the walls and smeared across the chief's face, some getting in his eye. He whipped his cheek and licked the poop off his hand, giving me a heavily stained shit-eating gin. Snake was right. In the mirror on the other side of the hallway, I could see the needle mark, veins popping out of my baseball cap.

But then, from the window, a flash of a purple wig and outfit came crashing into the room. It was hit-girl, out of my sexual fantasies and in the flesh! She was carrying some kind of double-edged sword; I didn't know since it wasn't a gun. She chopped the chief's arm off, me and the severed arm falling to the floor. Wearing the arm as a tie, I pulled on Snake's arm and lead him out of the ensuing battlezone.

"Let's get out of here, Snake!"

Running away as far as we could, we stopped to take a breath near a long river area. Snake wiped his forehead, breathing heavily. "Who was that girl? Do you know her?"

I looked away into the far distance, holding onto a bridge railing. "It was a long time ago. I met her when she was 12 years old. Now she's 14 and ready to take our relationship serious. I thought I would never see her again. The restraining order against me must have worn off by now."

"Do you love her?" Snake asked me, his heavy heart showing in his question.

"No! That's illegal!" I defended calmly. "She's 14, and I'm 23. It's never going to end well. I don't love her anymore- I mean at all. I never did in the first place."

Snake held his hand on my cheek, getting his lips very close to mine. "That's good. I like the sound of that." Turning away and letting go of my face, his eyes fell to the floor. "There's only one girl in my life. Lady Liberty. But, there's always room for men. Do you know what I mean… brah?"

"Yeah, you're saying. That we need to get through this river and towards the lake down the hill." I pulled my hat down, ready to trek onwards.

"Exactly," He confirmed.

From out of the water four shapes formed and leaped onto the walkway, Snake pushing me out of their way. "Run Pedro! These alligators are nasty!"

I saw the reptiles biting and gnawing at him. "No, brah, those are crocodiles!"

Everyone knows alligators are in Northern America and crocodiles flourish in the amazon region of South America. Whoever doesn't is too stupid for words or worse- a nigger.

Snake, battered and bruised by the croc teeth, pulled out his survival knife. "Pedro, promise me you'll save the president's daughter and prevent another nuclear disaster!"

I watched him jump into the water, wrapping his arms and legs around the four crocodiles' mouths and taking them with him. "Snake!" I cried in horror. "Snake? Snaaaaaaaaake!"

It seemed all over for him, blood bubbling up from the waters. I had to move on… without him. He sacrificed himself so I could live. I've never been so grateful for a fellow American to do something so badass and amazing, just for me. Next to the dock by the lake, Snake waited for me, leaning against one of the wooden posts.

"What the hell? How did you get away from those crocodiles? You should be hamburger meat by now!"

"Let's cross this lake," Snake said, motioning me over to the small fishing boat.

"Good idea," I said, and hopped on.

While Snake revved up the motor engine and handled the shaft like he had experience, I was busy looking through the built in periscope, searching for any danger afoot. And from the distance, under the water, there it was, rearing its ugly pointed head. Something big was heading towards us, its grey dorsal fin showing that it was facing our direction. I pointed at the approaching creature, telling snake what was going on.

"Tango off the starboard bow!"

"Time for some evasive maneuvers," Snake said. Twisting the steering handle to the right, we flew over a ramp and flipped over the creature. It was Jaws himself, back from the dead! Seeing him bite in the area where we just were, the 50ft shark roared at us as we flew overhead. Landing hard in the water, snake spun the boat around to line up with the monstrous sea creature of the black lagoon.

Snake pointed over to the front of the boat. "Quick, Pedro! Man the Flak 88 anti-tank cannon!"

For a second I wondered why the boat had such a destructive weapon on it, but then I remembered it was a big village and only one boat. So in Mexico, I guess it takes a German WW2 anti-tank cannon to feed a village. The Shark bumped into our boat, flying out of the water and ready to eat us whole. Cranking the turning wheels to align the crosshairs with the shark, I was ready to take the shot. There was no way to miss, its entire body covering the entire area in front of me.

"Smile, you son of a fish!"

The tip of its mouth was nicked by the salvo round, the shark exploding into a million cans of, not tuna, but hamburger meat.

"Good job, Pedro!" Snake praised. "Now let's get out of these dangerous waters."

Riding the boat to the small dock on the other side, we got off the boat and left the lake for good. While we did, the boat turned up vertically, a face showing on its underbelly. Agent 47's boat disguise tricked us pretty good, his red tie making up the propeller for the small motor. Unzipping his wooden boat suit, he squinted at us from the distance with bad intent.

We found a small house, overlooking the beautiful view of a blood filled lake bubbling with smoldering flesh. Both of us nestled on the bed, and after a little spooning time between Snake and me, drowsiness started to take a hold of me. I got pretty sleepy since I only had 12 hours of sleep the night before. Instantly, I passed out on the floor, and by the time I would wake up, it would be nighttime.


End file.
